


Modernity for the Quasi-Victorian

by grav_ity



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:35:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grav_ity/pseuds/grav_ity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James opens his birthday present from Helen with a certain amount of trepidation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Modernity for the Quasi-Victorian

**Author's Note:**

> AN: This fic was originally a comment fic, written for artaxastra’s The New Media. While not completely necessary, I do recommend that you read it first, because it’s funny as all get out, and she explains the technology more than I do. ;) You can find the fic at her livejournal.
> 
> Spoilers: Ha! That would require a plot! It takes place in 1935 or so, though, if that makes a difference to anyone.
> 
> Disclaimer: I wouldn’t know what to do with Watson if I had him. Well...that’s what I’m sticking to, anyway.
> 
> Rating: M
> 
> Pairing/Characters: Helen and James

**Modernity for the Quasi-Victorian**

James opens his birthday present from Helen with a certain amount of trepidation. He's always sure to open hers when he's alone, ever since the somewhat embarrassing hosiery incident of oughtie-four. It was weeks before he could make eye contact with any of his staff members after that.

The package looks harmless enough, but then again with Helen it nearly always does. It sits on his desk, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with binding cord, mocking him all day long after the courier delivers it. When the last of his business is finally done for the evening, he closes and locks the door to his office, pours himself a rather large brandy, and settles in by the fire to finally see what she's sent him this time.

The box reveals yet another new-fangled contraption he is sure the world would be better off without. He will make some allowances for quicker cheap mass transportation, since he himself rather misses zipping about the world with John, but most of the so-called improvements to human communication that Tesla can only be partially blamed for leave him feeling uncomfortably exposed. If he wants to talk to someone, he will go to their house or write them a letter. What more could anyone need?

She's included directions, because she knows him nearly as well as he knows himself, which informs him that the abomination he's holding in his hands is called straight eight, and that he will find the associated projector in the basement, where he has stored the last shipment from her Sanctuary.

He nearly balks at the idea of leaving his office and perhaps encountering someone in the corridor, but he has to admit that his curiosity is killing him, and if he doesn't watch whatever banal message she's sent, she'll only think of something worse next year, and that's only if she can manage to wait past Christmas. So he gets up, refilling the brandy as he passes the table, and heads down into the bowels of the London Sanctuary.

He finds the crate clearly marked and stored with all the others. It's near the top, thankfully, so he's spared the chore of extricating it from the pile, and once he pries it open, he finds the projector packed solidly in sawdust. It's too heavy to lift on his own, so he settles for knocking out one of the sides of the crate, and man-handling the projector on to one of the low wheeled carts his inventory people keep lying around.

By the time he gets back to the elevator, the brandy is gone and he's rather wishing he'd left his necktie in his office. The servos of his portable longevity device (he will never, ever stoop to referring to it as his PLD, as some of his younger colleagues do) whir somewhat alarmingly under the strain, but it's nothing to worry about yet.

Once in the office with the projector assembled, he follows the directions and inserts the film. He finds the clearest wall he can (this involves pulling a map of Antarctica down over one of the drafting boards, because every other surface is covered with books or the heavy velvet curtains everyone else claims are terribly depressing, too dusty, and far too good at their job), and once he's more or less sure it will work, he settles back into his chair.

The hum of the projector is somehow soothing, and for just a moment he decides that there might be something appealing to this new technology after all. Then the recording begins to play, and anything even remotely resembling coherency is banished from his mind. He is entirely unprepared for the message Helen sends him. He knows as soon as he sees the expression on her face that she has mischief in mind, and he can tell by the way the cut of the jacket hangs against her that there is nothing beneath it to mar its lines. He suspects that she guessed as much, because she takes an obscenely long time in getting it off.

It’s the silence that undoes him. The idea that she could flirt with him so obviously and not make any more noise than the quiet whir of the tape. He can see her laughing, and remembers well enough what that sounds like, but the absence of it fires his imagination, and he finds himself suddenly very hard.

He watches her move gracefully from pose to pose, almost hoping that the cigarette she’s clutching so flagrantly will burn out, signifying the end of his torture. His necktie hangs askew from his earlier labour, and he wastes no time in pulling it off his neck before fumbling with the closes on his trousers. There’s no point in making more of a mess than necessary, after all.

The film plays itself out, and him along with it, so that when it finally fades to white (and the faint borders of the southernmost continent), he is spent and breathing hard. He’s of a mind to send her a firmly worded telegram, except he has no idea what he could possibly say that wouldn’t make her even more triumphant. Instead he finds more brandy, and tries to figure out how to make it play again.

The next day, the tape itself is locked up in a safe he’s pretty sure no one else even knows exists, and his tie is long gone up in smoke. The projector stands quietly in the corner of his office and not a single member of his team remarks upon it.

He finds himself resolving to learn how the blasted thing works, and wondering if he could make his own recording in enough time for her next birthday.

+++

 **fin**

**Author's Note:**

> Gravity_Not_Included, January 14th, 2011


End file.
